


On The Subject Of The Painter

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Humor, LANCELOT IS COMING I SWEAR, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 07:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2182755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur receives from a neighbouring kingdom the most incredible portrait he's ever seen - not a brush stroke is to be seen on the cloth, and he's never seen colour so vivid. For such incredible craftsmanship, magic must be at work.</p><p>And so, he travels to find the painter at fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Subject Of The Painter

**Author's Note:**

> I had an idea for a short AU in which Merlin uses magic with which to paint, and then the fic wasn't so short, and now this is the first chapter of yet another WIP. I have no self-control as an author, and for that I apologize.

“And in recognition of the young prince's appointment as official heir, a portrait!” Arthur takes a slow step forwards, staring with some awe. It's a large piece of cloth, stretched out over a frame of wood, and on the cloth is a _perfect_ likeness of him. 

Arthur is looking into the distance in the image, and his lips are slightly parted as if he's surprised by something: his lips are painted pink and his eyes are so  _very_ blue, and the pigment of his skin looks completely natural.

He peers at it with fascination, sees the bright red of his cape and the  _gold_ shine to the Camelot crest, how his armour seems to glitter and shine in the daylight streaming in from outside. He has never  _seen_ a likeness made with paint so well done – and never seen paint so  _vivid._

“Your gift is most appreciated, my old friend.” His father says, and he sounds as awestruck as Arthur as he stares at the canvas too: Arthur doesn't even hear his own thank you as he murmurs it, because it comes out quiet and soft, and distracted. 

It's not that he's  _narcissistic_ – Arthur looks in the mirror no more than anyone else does – but something like this? He's just never seen it before. He didn't think something like this was  _possible._

“What do you think of it, Gaius?” Arthur asks the court physician quietly as the portrait is raised to a wall, and Gaius raises a slow eyebrow, looking to the painted cloth with a cautious expression. Gaius is a naturally cautious man, so Arthur's noticed, but he's effective, and he knows a lot – Gaius is _very_ wise, if slightly acerbic when it suits him. 

“It's beautiful, sire.” Gaius says in a light tone, but Arthur can hear something beneath it. 

“And?” Arthur prompts, and he looks to the creases as they alter in the older man's face, and Gaius presses his lips together, letting out a very quiet hum. “Do you think it's magic, Gaius?”

“No.” comes the immediate answer, but Arthur can hear the “but” before it even thinks of leaving the other man's tongue. Gaius adjusts his clothes, putting his wrists together and refolding his hands. “But,” There it is. “You've never seen a painting like that, sire, no. Have you ever seen a painting without brush strokes, finger marks, _something_?”

Arthur looks to the painting again and notes that yes, the colours are all vivid, but all have been applied to the cream-coloured fabric with no marks, no brushes, no-

“ _Magic_ , it must be.” Arthur whispers under his breath, and he looks to King Rodor with a silent question posed on his lips. “But how...?” He speaks to Gaius from the side of his mouth.

“I don't know, sire.” Gaius says, evasively, and then he moves away.

“Oh, no, the King had it commissioned specially!” One of the girls is eager to speak to him: she's a rider with Rodor's party, but now she wears a blue dress with lace in silver. She leans forwards as she talks, and he doesn't let his eyes linger on the swell of her breasts in her bodice, doesn't look at the curve of her neck or the flower at her sternum, intended to draw the eye. “There's a painter, sire, right on the reaches of the kingdom, on the border with Camelot! He lives all alone, real weird like, but he doesn't insist on too much for a painting or two!”

“Really?”

“Yeah!” He keeps speaking with her, but she reveals nothing more of note – her breasts are pushed again, and again. Arthur shan't take advantage of that, though, God, so he politely thanks her for her conversation and compliments her smile, affecting her to blush, before making his way back to his father.

A magician. And on the border with Camelot, well, that is  _technically_ in their domain – in order to paint so, surely he must have had some powers or other. A potential practiser of the Old Religion, perhaps, or even a druid.

It's not just that Arthur is  _curious_ – such an idea would be ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. He just wishes to keep his kingdom, the kingdom  _he_ will one day inherit, safe from harm.

Yep.

He'll speak to his father: not in front of Rodor, of course, lest they offend the other royal, but he'll talk to his father. He wants to see how these paintings are made, and if not with magic, so be it. And if they are?

Well. Sorcery is outlawed for good reason.

\---

“Elyan.” Arthur speaks in a soft, coaxing tone, and the other knight raises an eyebrow at him. He looks a bit like his sister, oddly enough – which means he's, ah, attractive. Definitely. Both Gwen and Elyan are _very_ attractive indeed, but especially Gwen. 

Gwen who, Arthur is fairly certain, has a very  _intimate_ relationship with Morgana. 

“ _Sire_?” Elyan says, and Arthur smiles at him. Elyan frowns.

“Will you _assist_ me in a very important mission?” His brow furrows. Leon is asleep, sprawled on the ground by the fire (everyone had insisted he'd probably set his hair alight doing that, but so far he's alive and fine), but Gwaine and Percival are very _audibly_ awake.

“ _Ah_ , Gwa- _ai_ ne, they can hear us-”

“They already know about the birds and the bees, Percy.” There is another low groan from Percival's mouth, and then a choked noise and the sound of wood snapping, no doubt as he grasps blindly at something on the ground. 

“What mission?” Elyan asks, and Arthur flicks his head to the cool river running alongside their encampment. 

“Cool them down?” Elyan's lip twitches, and then he grins. They wink at each other and, slowly, grasp at their bottles, moving over to the running water to fill them with the cool liquid. 

Gwaine's screams and Percival's apologies ring through the woods as Elyan and Arthur laugh, leaning on each other and patting each other's backs. Leon looks up at them, tiredly, and Arthur and Elyan lean down and pat his bearded face, making him grunt and recoil away from them. 

They sleep soon after that, Gwaine irritably pressing his face against Percival's thigh instead of  _anywhere else_ to enjoy it as a pillow, and the others sleeping like normal humans. 

Then the trek continues through the forest: they have been walking for several days now, but they are near their destination. It is near a rocky outcrop, the painter's home, and they move past it, each of them with their hands ready on their swords. Just in case.

It's a small house, crafted skilfully of wood and in amongst some trees with leaves strewn across its roof in order to camouflage it properly. If they were not seeking out the man, they might not have noticed it, but they have noticed it, now.

Arthur leads forwards, and he pushes forwards the door.

His mouth drops open.

Similar stretches of cloth are left all over on numerous frames of wood, and then there are shelves and shelves of plants in jars, plants and ore and dust and mud. Arthur steps cautiously inside, and each of them are as quiet as is humanly possible: past the shelves is a flat space with what appears to be a  _very_ expensive rug on the floor.

Arthur doesn't think his  _father_ even has a rug so luxurious in his quarters.

There is a young man seated on a stool, swirls of leaf and flower curving over the legs of it, carved carefully into the wood. His eyes glow gold as he adjusts the pigments in jars and trays hovering about his body, levitating with no need of a surface to rest on. He is painting a dragon, and its scales are gold and silver, and they  _shine_ as the paint on the painted Arthur's clothes had. Arthur knows what dragons look like: he has vague memories of dragons slain, their bodies rotting and their scales ceasing to look so strong, and another stronger memory of a larger dragon that his father had managed to capture.

Never has a dragon, terrible and terrifying as they are, struck him as so beautiful a creature.

Arthur's mouth is open and once again he is awestruck: it is Leon that says, voice powerful and commanding, “Halt, sorcerer!”

The jars and metal trays all clatter to the ground, glass smashing. They lunge as one, before he has the chance to cast anything more. 

It is Gwaine that puts a cloth about the young man's mouth so that he can utter no words, and it is Elyan that ties his wrists so that he can make no gestures, Leon who blindfolds him, Arthur who ties his ankles so that he cannot run.

It is Arthur that keeps hold of the man as he struggles and gasps, and says, “Sorcery in Camelot is punishable by death.” The man lets out a quiet  _wail_ , and Arthur pushes him to Percival so that he can carry him out to lay him on the back of a horse, to take back to the castle.

They search in silence, and if they're more tender with each jar and box of carefully collected material than usual, then none of them mentions it. There's no reason to be gentle where sorcerers are concerned, and the admittance would be embarrassing to say the least.

“No books, sire. No artefacts. Nothing else.” Each of them comes to the same conclusion: nothing here is magical except for the man himself. 

“He's only a boy.” Arthur hears Gwaine speak sharply to Percival as the other man lifts him – gently, without undue roughness – onto the front of his horse. 

“He's my age, Gwaine, give or take a few years.” Arthur says, and the man _struggles_ , but Percival's arms are either side of him and he won't fall. Percival wouldn't let anyone fall from his horse, if it would hurt them: not even a man like this. 

Arthur feels drawn to him. The glance he'd got at the man's face hadn't been enough, the soft curves and plain bone structure, the smooth, clear skin, the paleness, his  _eyes._ Arthur wants to study that face in minute detail, more than he'd caught in that second. He wears plain clothes despite the rug he'd seen on the floor, red cloth that's soft from wear rather than the price paid for it, and a scarf around his neck, boots that are well-made but not new.

He has stopped screaming against the stretch in his mouth, stopped elbowing the knight behind him in the chest, stopped fighting: Arthur has never seen a man tremble so much in pure silence. They ride for some time, but they have to take camp.

It takes  _days_ to get from here to home, and so they pick out a clearing, but a light rain had fallen: everything is just slightly damp and uncomfortable. All the same, they lay out their packs: Percival removes the gag. Arthur can't hear what he says to the wizard, but through the shaking the sorcerer gives a very slow, minute nod.

And with that, Percival pulls the blindfold from about his eyes.

He is  _beautiful_ . Seeing his face like this, unhidden, his eyes wide, his lips slightly parted, is different. He is no longer concentrated on his work, an art-  _no._ A sorcerer. A sorcerer posing a potential danger, and he could not be allowed to go free. 

“Ah, for _fuck's_ sake-” Gwaine throws the flints aside with a growl, and Elyan rolls his eyes, leaning to pick them up.

“I can do that.” His voice comes out a quiet croak, but even dry and scared and soaked for crying (only now has Arthur noticed the way the cloth around his eyes had been stained), it's a pleasant voice. A comforting voice.

“What do you mean?” Gwaine says, sharply, and the sorcerer looks to the stacked firewood and kindling, hands still tied behind his back. He doesn't speak. His eyes flash that infinite, shining gold again, and a spark sets of the set of firewood. They all stare at him, shocked he'd ever be so bold.

“Well, you've already captured me. Don't see the point in letting him take half an hour to get us warm.” Elyan snorts despite himself, hiding his mouth behind the back of his hand, and Percival laughs a little.

“Excuse _you_ , little sorcerer!” Gwaine says, but his voice is teasing. He is not angry – this is the voice he uses with all of them, and he sits beside the man, ignoring his flinch as he wraps an arm around his shoulder. “Wouldn't have taken me half an hour. What's your _name_?”

“Merlin.” The boy whispers, and he doesn't say anything else, but he does lean slightly on Gwaine's shoulder. He looks _terrified._ He is _shaking._ Are they going to kill this man?

“Merlin.” The other knights look to him and their smiles fade: they become solemn, because Arthur's face is serious. “Do you know who I am?”

“Prince Arthur of Camelot.” Merlin says, and his lips press together and the way he looks up at Arthur scares him, because he hates the idea that someone could look up at him with such utter apprehension. 

This is the way people look at his father.

“You're a sorcerer.” Merlin mutely nods his head. 

“But I don't- I was _born_ with it, it just happens. I don't have books, I'm not a druid, I don't _hurt_ anyone! I just-” Merlin trails off, and Gwaine draws his arm off the smaller man's shoulder. Arthur fills the gap.

“Paint.” Another nod. “Why must you use magic? It is _outlawed,_ ever since-”

“I know.” Merlin says, interrupting him with such a sad desperation that Arthur doesn't snap. He looks _pathetic._ Arthur feels sympathy for him, feels his heart _ache._ “But with magic I can make colours, blend them and layer them in a way you never can with brushes. I can make my own with only a little material, and the paint looks so _smooth_ on the canvas. It's better. And I don't hurt anyone. I just trade, and keep a little gold to buy the food I can't grow or catch – nothing more.”

“You made the decision to reside in Camelot. Therefore, you will abide by Camelot's laws.” 

“So you're going to kill me for painting.” Merlin says, and Elyan, Leon, Percival, Gwaine: never has Arthur seen his knights look so ashamed of their work. Merlin doesn't look upset, anymore – his eyes are red for crying, but now he seems calm.

He seems disappointed.

“For practising sorcery, you will be under penalty of-”

“For painting. For painting you. If I hadn't done that painting, you would not have come for me.” Arthur opens and closes his mouth, and the knights look at the young man. He has to be firm. He has to press this, has to show himself as an example.

“Percival, blindfold and gag him until it's time to eat.” The larger man looks stricken at the order.

“But, sire-”

“ _Now_.” Merlin doesn't struggle this time; he tilts his head closer to make it easier on him and Gwaine to render him blind and mute again, and Arthur doesn't understand it. It is not that he wishes for Merlin to escape, but he ought _want_ to. 

And yet something about him like this, powerless (but he's not powerless, not really: he can use magic without a word or wave, so why doesn't he?), sends a  _thrill_ through Arthur. Enough of a thrill that when Gwaine undoes the gag he steps forwards, and he stops him from pulling away the blindfold as well.

“What are you-” Merlin is quiet when Arthur holds the spoon to his mouth. A flush comes to his cheeks: he is embarrassed, humiliated, because they will not let him feed himself. He's not trusted that far, and for the next few days he'll be fed by silent knights, until he goes to be burned at the stake.

Arthur doesn't want to kill him. Everything about the boy implies a gentleness that he can't even begin to fathom, couldn't explain if he wanted to. He presses the spoon forwards and watches him hesitate before he takes the stew in his mouth.

Arthur doesn't sleep that night. Merlin doesn't initially: he shakes on his bedroll until Gwaine huffs, pulls him up by the back of his shirt and pulls him between himself and Percival. He sleeps after that, still between the both of them in that ridiculous pile of bodies, and stupidly enough, Arthur feels  _jealous._

He is the King's son, though, and he cannot insist that the prisoner ride on the front of his horse. So Merlin rides in front of Leon, and Arthur wonders if Leon wants to slowly lift the cloth at the man's mouth and drag his mouth over the newly bared skin, if Leon wants to strip away those clothes, see if that pallidness extends below his neckline, to the skin the sun doesn't touch.

The next night, Arthur says, “He'll sleep next to me tonight.” to Gwaine. “You can't get  _attached_ to him.”

“He's only-”

“A sorcerer.” Arthur reminds him, and Gwaine lets out a gruff sound. He and Percival go off out of sight and (thankfully) out of earshot, then. Arthur does not know yet how he feels about their relationship. His father would be furious, if he knew. Despite himself, Arthur is no stranger to keeping secrets from his father. 

He undoes the rope at Merlin's wrists, and he removes the cloth over his eyes and over his mouth. Merlin says nothing as Arthur rubs soothing balm into the reddened flesh, but Arthur can feel the sorcerer's eyes studying his face with a fervour. He is confused: of course he is.

“Why there? You could have gone further from us. A place where magic is permitted.”

“Magic was permitted here, once.” Merlin returns. “To be there was as close to my family as I could be without endangering them. I could travel to my mother: I could see her. I just wanted to be alone, and work. People would come buy my paintings, or my wood carvings. My craftsmanship is beyond measure because I have magic. Imagine someone tied this hand behind your back,” Merlin's hands are on his left hand, and they are cooler than they should be, slender and skilled. “And said that although it works just fine, you're no longer permitted to use it.”

He is so  _beautiful_ , with this fervour on his face, this earnest need to convince Arthur. “My magic is  _part_ of me.”

“Blindfold and gag back on.” Arthur says, and his voice comes out choked. Merlin looks away from him. 

He shakes at night, on the bedroll beside Arthur's: when Arthur wakes he's pressed his larger body right against the smaller man's, wrapped his arms around him. Merlin seems to be asleep, and none of the other knights are awake yet, so he slowly extricates himself, certain about not revealing the fact.

Gwaine and Percival have him after that, though Arthur doesn't say outright that they should. The journey back is uneventful, except that he cannot help himself from  _looking._ Each glance to the other man, even trussed up with his face hidden – and why do they bother, if he's not going to cast any magic anyway? - makes Arthur want him more.

_God._

It'd be less of a scandal if he was caught in the courtyard buggering one of the nights.

“Take it off to bring him before the King.” Arthur says, and Merlin's knees are weak as he stares up at the castle, so Elyan hooks an arm under his shoulder for a few moments, before he stands up straight. Arthur tuts, thinks, “One would think he could walk to his death with a little more dignity.” and then feels _shame._

“Father!” Arthur says as they move into the courtroom, and Merlin walks behind him, head bowed a little.

“Arthur. I trust this is the painter?” His father's chin is raised: he is expectant, stern as always. His father is a strict man, after all.

“This is he.”

“And is it as you thought?” Arthur looks at Merlin, cowed with his shoulders slightly hunched, and the knights lined up behind him.

“No, sire.” Arthur says. “No, no, he's- just a painter. My suspicions were, as he assured me from his artist's point of view, quite ridiculous. He is merely skilled beyond common measure.” Merlin is gaping like a carp.

“Oh? Why, then, what is your name?”

“Merlin, sire.” The sorcerer says, choking a little on the words, and as he talks Arthur makes a subtle, sharp gesture for his knights to close their mouths. “I- I would not say skilled beyond measure. I merely have p-p-passion for my work.”

“He's nervous.” Arthur says. “Been in his own little hut for years, Father – not so good with crowds.”

“And you are here now, because...?”

“He wants to work in the castle.” Merlin's head whips to Arthur. “I nearly fell while there, and he, ah, saved my life and, consequently, I offered him a position as my manservant. As a reward.”

“And I was- uh, delighted, to accept.” His father nods firmly, and he seems pleased.

“Well, it will be good to have a man of such skill here.” Arthur is swift about getting Merlin and the knights to knights' quarters, and then he sits down, puts his face in his hands and begrudges the existence of sympathy.

“Well done!” Gwaine says, and he and Percival both pat Merlin on the back at the same time, making him drop forwards.

“I don't want to be your servant!” Merlin hisses.

“Well, do you want to be dead? We can arrange for you to be dead!” Arthur hisses.

“You _clotpole!_ You arrogant idiot, you take me from my _home_ where I am happy and functioning and you bring me here, tell me I'm going to die, and then you say I'm going to be your _**servant**_!? What is wrong with you?” 

Arthur stares at him. “Clotpole? I am your  _prince_ -”

“To be fair, sire, you did sort of kidnap him-”

“It wasn't fair to just act like you were still going to kill him, Arthur!”

“You could have told us!”

“No, you're not! You just _took_ me-”

“If I might interrupt.” All of them look to Gaius as he very carefully closes the door behind him. All the knights stare at him, and Merlin spreads his hands, as if ready to fight. “Merlin?”

“Yes?”

“Your mother is Hunith?” Merlin's face softens, and he tilts his head. Gaius' smile is gentle, and a little regretful. “My name is Gaius, Merlin. I-”

“You're my uncle.” Merlin says, and then he throws himself forwards, and Arthur blinks with some confusion as Gaius embraces the man, wrapping his arms tightly around his shoulders. “Can you send word to my mother? I didn't mean-”

“No, no, of course not. I trust this was _your_ idea, sire?” Arthur stares at him.

“So- so he's your nephew. And he's- he's a sorcerer.”

“And he's your manservant, apparently.” Gaius says in a dry tone. Gwaine snorts. Arthur doesn't find this funny at all.

“Did- Gaius, did you _know_ he was a sorcerer?”

“No.” Gaius shakes his head. “Arthur, I had no knowledge at all – I knew my nephew was named Merlin, living in Essetir, and that was all. I had no _idea_ \- well. Merlin, you'll stay in my quarters. I'll send word to your mother that you are safe, and well. Your things...?”

“I thought I was going to be executed, Gaius, so I didn't exactly think to bring them with me.” Merlin says.

“We'll get them.” Gwaine says. “Percival and I are to attend an event soon, sparring – as we return we will pack your things, and bring them by cart.”

“We'll tell the King there was some delay.” Leon adds, with a firm nod.

“Perfect.” Elyan agrees. They're all working together to keep this man alive, and here, in Camelot, even though he's got _magic._ All of them are committing treason, just to keep this man alive. But he hasn't _hurt_ anyone, damn, so why _shouldn't_ they?

“What have I _done_?” Arthur speaks under his breath, leaning back against the wall and rubbing at his eyes. Merlin's nostrils flare, and he takes in a deep breath.

“I can do it. I _can_ do it, so long as you don't- sell me out.” Merlin raises his chin, and Arthur looks at him for a few moments. “And I'll prove to you that magic ought not be outlawed.” Arthur squares his jaw, and then he nods.

“But if my father finds out, if my father feels the slightest _hint_ -”

“I know.” Merlin says, and he speaks firmly. “I know.” Arthur finds himself drawn to the way his lips curve when they're pressed together like this. “But I can do it.”

“Arthur?” Gaius prompts him after a lengthy pause, as if looking for his final approval. His final assent.

“Very well.” Arthur says, and he nods. Gwaine smacks Percival's arse in something of a celebration, but this affects Percival to fall on top of Leon, who falls onto Elyan, who falls onto Arthur. All of them tumble to the ground except Gwaine, who looks pleased with himself.

“Does this- Is this a common thing?” Merlin asks. “Not very graceful for a prince, are you?”

“Shut _up_ , Merlin.” Arthur grumbles into Leon's hair as he tries to push the other man up, and Merlin starts to laugh.

He looks good when he laughs.

Arthur's done well, manservant-wise. He's not as pretty as Gwen, perhaps, but he is attractive. And Arthur will- proceed to do nothing about that, probably.

“Merlin?”

“Yes?”

“Help me up.” The sorcerer snorts, and offers his hand: Arthur pulls him to the ground too, throwing him across Leon.

“You _clot_ -”

“That's what you get, Merlin.” All of them are laughing: even Merlin is laughing; even _Gaius_ is laughing.

Oh, yes. Arthur  _has_ done well.

 


End file.
